Introduction
This was the first short story that Mike
Resnick ever bought from me. It was pretty much the first short
story that I ever attempted, although between its beginning and its
completion, I wrote another which was published first
( Birthnight.)
There is something utterly appropriate about
the subject matter; I was writing about a Genie, and I was spending
much of my free time on the then on-line GEnie service. (
This
was at a time when being on-line at all cost serious money, but the
SFRT chat rooms were free for members of SFWA, which was one of the
biggest advantages to being in SFWA, at the time
.) It was on
GEnie that I met Mike Resnick, and Mike Resnick was to teach me
much of what I know about the publishing business. (
Much of
this has now changed in the past almost two decades, but it was
invaluable at the time, if only to avoid the occasional unexpected
surprise.)
He was funny when I needed humour, and serious in
that older statesman way (he’d deny this loudly if asked). It was
also Mike Resnick who made me call Sheila Gilbert at DAW when I had
a novel I wanted to submit to her, and he even gave me her phone
number when I did the electronic version of stammer. He really
wasn’t keen on excuses. ( In his defense, I had spoken to Sheila
Gilbert several times by that point, at Worldcons and on the phone
when she called the bookstore to speak to Tanya Huff. Had I not
already known her in person I would never have scraped up
the courage to cold-call her .)
I was incredibly nervous, writing this for
him. (
The good news: you become less nervous with time. You
flail less, or tear out your hair less, or doubt yourself less.
Unless you’re writing novels, in which case, in my experience, it’s
worse. I live in a short story while I’m writing it, but it’s only
for a few days. I live in a novel for a lot longer, and have a
clearer idea, now, of what can go wrong
. )
I started it several times, and finally
finished the story that’s included here. I can see a lot of things
that I would do differently now. But this was the best I could do
then, and in some ways, it reflects the writer I was. (
Oddly
enough, I like it more now than I did eight years ago, possibly
because I’m far enough removed from it now that I have no memory at
all of actually writing it
. )
When I was on the verge of telling him I
wasn’t certain I could write a story he’d like, I showed it to
Teresa Edgerton, and she offered me encouragement enough that I
sent it.
Toronto, 2003
Toronto, 2011
Gifted
He was the last of the Genies.
The others had served their purpose in a
brilliant flash of three sharp bursts, and had been dust or less
for many centuries.
When he was born, if indeed a Genie can be
said to know birth, he was taught. He could not remember the
teacher at all, but the teacher’s words were as sharp and clear now
as they had been at the beginning of his awareness.
“You are part of the magic of the world,” the
teacher had said. “All things that live must have purpose, and that
is yours. You will not be strong, as camels are, and you will not
be cunning or wily in the manner of men; you will not be mortal,
but you cannot live forever.”
“What will we be?” One of the Genies had
asked.
“What you are: Wishgivers. And when you have
found the one, you will make your choice—and three times, you will
know the power of the Maker. You might be as Gods, if you choose
your dreamer wisely.”
“What happens when the wishes are given?”
The teacher did not answer.
Time did. Time, and the first of the Genie’s
brothers. He was an impatient wisp of air and color, with no
thought to the future and only the desire of power to guide him. He
found a poor man—who better than the poorest of the poor to make a
great wish?—and gave his gift first to gold and jewels, second to
beautiful flesh, and last to a kingdom that spanned the deserts.
The wishgiver, the first of the wishbringers, knew the
This was the first short story that Mike
Resnick ever bought from me. It was pretty much the first short
story that I ever attempted, although between its beginning and its
completion, I wrote another which was published first
( Birthnight.)
There is something utterly appropriate about
the subject matter; I was writing about a Genie, and I was spending
much of my free time on the then on-line GEnie service. (
This
was at a time when being on-line at all cost serious money, but the
SFRT chat rooms were free for members of SFWA, which was one of the
biggest advantages to being in SFWA, at the time
.) It was on
GEnie that I met Mike Resnick, and Mike Resnick was to teach me
much of what I know about the publishing business. (
Much of
this has now changed in the past almost two decades, but it was
invaluable at the time, if only to avoid the occasional unexpected
surprise.)
He was funny when I needed humour, and serious in
that older statesman way (he’d deny this loudly if asked). It was
also Mike Resnick who made me call Sheila Gilbert at DAW when I had
a novel I wanted to submit to her, and he even gave me her phone
number when I did the electronic version of stammer. He really
wasn’t keen on excuses. ( In his defense, I had spoken to Sheila
Gilbert several times by that point, at Worldcons and on the phone
when she called the bookstore to speak to Tanya Huff. Had I not
already known her in person I would never have scraped up
the courage to cold-call her .)
I was incredibly nervous, writing this for
him. (
The good news: you become less nervous with time. You
flail less, or tear out your hair less, or doubt yourself less.
Unless you’re writing novels, in which case, in my experience, it’s
worse. I live in a short story while I’m writing it, but it’s only
for a few days. I live in a novel for a lot longer, and have a
clearer idea, now, of what can go wrong
. )
I started it several times, and finally
finished the story that’s included here. I can see a lot of things
that I would do differently now. But this was the best I could do
then, and in some ways, it reflects the writer I was. (
Oddly
enough, I like it more now than I did eight years ago, possibly
because I’m far enough removed from it now that I have no memory at
all of actually writing it
. )
When I was on the verge of telling him I
wasn’t certain I could write a story he’d like, I showed it to
Teresa Edgerton, and she offered me encouragement enough that I
sent it.
Toronto, 2003
Toronto, 2011
Gifted
He was the last of the Genies.
The others had served their purpose in a
brilliant flash of three sharp bursts, and had been dust or less
for many centuries.
When he was born, if indeed a Genie can be
said to know birth, he was taught. He could not remember the
teacher at all, but the teacher’s words were as sharp and clear now
as they had been at the beginning of his awareness.
“You are part of the magic of the world,” the
teacher had said. “All things that live must have purpose, and that
is yours. You will not be strong, as camels are, and you will not
be cunning or wily in the manner of men; you will not be mortal,
but you cannot live forever.”
“What will we be?” One of the Genies had
asked.
“What you are: Wishgivers. And when you have
found the one, you will make your choice—and three times, you will
know the power of the Maker. You might be as Gods, if you choose
your dreamer wisely.”
“What happens when the wishes are given?”
The teacher did not answer.
Time did. Time, and the first of the Genie’s
brothers. He was an impatient wisp of air and color, with no
thought to the future and only the desire of power to guide him. He
found a poor man—who better than the poorest of the poor to make a
great wish?—and gave his gift first to gold and jewels, second to
beautiful flesh, and last to a kingdom that spanned the deserts.
The wishgiver, the first of the wishbringers, knew the
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